All That Glitters
by Atlin Merrick
Summary: So. John and Sherlock. Sherlock and John. Getting together. Romantically. How'd it all start, anyway? Well, essentially it was Gary Glitter's fault, and you can take that to the bank.
1. Chapter 1

**All That Glitters**

Don't ask John Watson how he and Sherlock Holmes first got romantically involved. Just don't.

Because _everyone _asks him, no one asks Sherlock, and frankly it's become annoying. Partially because he doesn't quite know how to answer honestly except in the vaguest terms: "It just happened. Over time. Somehow."

And partially it's because they _always_ ask him and no on asks Sherlock and for once he'd like to be the one listening to the story instead of being the one telling it. Yet if John dares say, "Ask him how it started, he'll tell you everything, including the barometric pressure and the price of petrol that day," he knows exactly what will happen.

That person, if they don't really know Sherlock well, will actually do it. They'll turn to the detective with a winsome smile and they'll actually ask: "So, how _did_ you two get together anyway?"

And it will take no less than eighteen seconds, no more than twenty-two, for a shocked flush to creep up the asker's collarbones. It'll take twenty-three to thirty seconds before they realize yes, he _did_ just say the words hard on, masturbation, and anal sex, and it will be no more than forty seconds before that person flees the room, forgetting their gloves but fortunately remembering their coat. (John never had the courage to bring the gloves round the next day.)

So don't ask John how they got together because he's just tired of the question and for god's sake don't ask Sherlock. If you're really curious and have a strong constitution why don't you just take a few minutes and read this? It'll be faster, you can go at your own pace, and you'll have time to draw the curtains, too. Because consider this fair warning: This story contains the words hard-on, masturbation, anal sex, erection, come, fuck, well-hung, "do me", boner, and Frankenstein. Still reading? Lovely. Grab a cup of tea and take a seat, the worst is over and the best is yet to come. So to speak.

* * *

So. John and Sherlock. Sherlock and John. Getting together. Romantically. How? Well, essentially it was Gary Glitter's fault, and you can take that to the bank.

Not that Sherlock Holmes knew who Glitter was mind you. He'd never heard the phrase glam rock, or until that October night listened to a single one of the artist's songs.

That all changed when he headed home three days early from an investigation in Glasgow. Yes, he tried texting John from the airport to let him know, yes he thought about buying a quarter hour of internet access and sending an email, but his mobile was dead and then the plane was boarding and it really didn't seem _that_ important. After all, he'd be home within hours.

And he was. Home: Where he could have a cup of tea and tell John about the case. Home: Where he could bug Lestrade for another case, while crowing about the one he'd just closed. Home—where a thrumming bass beat reverberated through the old floors like a damned disco?

Sherlock stood in the downstairs foyer of 221B Baker Street for five long seconds, briefly confused. And then he lunged up the stairs three at a time, having erroneously deduced (and on such flimsy evidence) that in his absence John had packed up and left, subletting the flat to a brace of drunken uni students.

When he wrenched open the flat's door, he was quite nearly physically assaulted by back beat. Hands flying to his ears, the detective waded into the ungodly sound, gaze sweeping the sitting room top to bottom. But there were no bongs, kegs, teetering stacks of text books, no burning incense. Instead there was the skull (thank you Mrs. Hudson), a teetering stack of unpaid bills, a Union Jack pillow, a familiar mess—in short, blessed normality.

Except for that brain bending _noise._

Sherlock spun around, simultaneously drawn to and repelled by the cacophony, until he rounded the corner to the kitchen, and found there his understated flatmate, his mild-mannered friend, his mellow, mellow colleague…well it can only be called _grooving_ to Gary Glitter's "Rock and Roll Part 2." All alone. There. In the kitchen. Eyes closed. Barely dressed. Barely dressed in two things: Sherlock's purple silk shirt, and Sherlock's gray wool scarf.

And standing there, watching the smaller man move, it would be quite right to say it seemed as if John was not in the room. He was, possibly, not even in London. He was somewhere else entirely and he liked it there, liked it so much that he was grinning like a fool and more than half hard.

Unnoticed, unheeded, the consulting detective reflexively took in each detail of what he saw, just as he always did, but his _response _to what he saw? Well, that was quite unique. Because for the first time in nearly twenty years, instead of recording, absorbing, and deducing, the brain and body of Sherlock Holmes lit up like a god damn supernova, washed in a cold fire of sexual need.

Knees half buckling, Sherlock tripped away from the kitchen doorway, fell back against the sitting room wall, and breathed in ragged clumps.

Fortunately it took him only three seconds (yes he counted, because sometimes when he can't think around his own thinking, Sherlock reflexively counts how long it takes him to get back on track) to realize he had to move, hide, get out. _Why_ he had to do any of those things he couldn't have said at that moment, but he let instinct move his feet for him, lock the flat door for him, and that's how he found himself on the other side of the door of 221B having a panic attack in the hallway.

It was Sherlock's first panic attack in twenty-two years, actually, and it was a doozy. Unlike the cluster of freak-outs he'd had at twelve—_I want them to like me; I don't care if they like me; they're idiots; I'm an idiot_—this panic attack was three-dimensional, a little twitchy, and it _ached._

Let's face it, Sherlock wasn't twelve anymore, he was thirty-four years old and quite set in his ways. To have _any_ sexual response to external stimuli was unacceptable. To have a knee-weakening sexual response to a flatmate was madness. To have a painful erection right now, this minute, in response to looking at John and _his_ erection (when Sherlock hasn't had so much as a wet dream in over two years), well that was impossible.

Except, of course, it wasn't. Except, well maybe he was imagining things. It took more than logic and brilliance to piece together clues and solve a case; you had to have a vigorous imagination, too. So maybe he was…just…overthinking and…well he should check, gather data, make sure.

With a deeply drawn breath, there in the hallway, leaning against his own front door (the music thrumming through the wood), Sherlock lifted his chin, bit his lip, and surreptitiously Brailled a few tentative fingers over his groin.

Lord god was he hard. As hard as…his mind flailed, reaching. As hard as the skull, that's how hard. (Three months later, bored at a crime scene, Sherlock would laugh out loud and inappropriately when he remembers that he'd compared his first boner in years to, well, a bone.)

Okay, the facts were in and they were alarming and now Sherlock's response was to get so panicky he couldn't breathe.

Which is _exactly _what happens when you're ruthless with your hard drive. Keep the platter too clean and you really, really don't have the information you need when you need it. Like information for "What should I do if I'm suddenly wildly turned on by my flatmate?" or data for "He was wearing _my_ clothes. My clothes. Oh my god is _he_ turned on by_ me?"_

Queue a whole new set of emotions as Sherlock "I'm a genius and you're an idiot" Holmes realizes that he not only failed to realize his own attraction to John, but missed every sign of John's attraction to him.

Thank god for empty hallways because there was probably no safer place in all of London for Sherlock to have his first and only nervous breakdown in peace.

"I am not having a nervous breakdown," he said, his voice deep with annoyance.

And just like that, with nothing more profound than hearing his own voice, his own irked voice, Sherlock found a small sliver of normality. Such a shame it was promptly yanked out from under him when John Watson opened the flat's door.

"What the hell—"

Sherlock crossed his legs at the ankle and casually pulled his long coat closed over him, as if he often stretched out on the floor. "Hello John."

"Sherlock, what—"

But the detective was already springing up, grabbing his bag, and rushing past his flatmate—whom he was extremely careful not to touch—tossing random lies and obfuscations behind him as he went.

"Terrible flight, wretched case, I've got to type up some notes, care to go for dinner later, I'll be in my room for a few hours."

At least that last part was true, for Sherlock did indeed spend the next two and a half hours in his bedroom, sitting on the edge of his bed doing three things:

* Periodically wondering if it would make things better or worse if he _touched it._

* Trying very hard not to think about _touching it._

* Working extremely hard to not think about why _it_ wanted to be touched.

In the end he didn't touch it because he'd gone so long ignoring it that he was pretty sure if he paid it any attention he'd botch the whole process anyway. Still, even when the erection finally went away he stayed there, thinking. And getting nowhere. Because deep and throbbing sexual attraction as an adult? This was new territory for Sherlock. It was the Wild West, Terra Incognita, No Man's Land. He could think about it six ways from Sunday but without more data he had no clue how to proceed.

Fortunately Sherlock Holmes was very good at gathering, collating, interpreting, and finally making conclusions from data. As a matter of fact he was rather well-known for it.

Good. It was settled. Sherlock stood up, brushed his hands down the front of his pristine trousers, snatched his coat up off the chair, opened his door, and—

—ran right into John Watson.

It took a moment to untangle their bodies, and in that one precious moment the data collection began:

* John's hair is much softer than it looks (this dispatch was courtesy of Sherlock's cheek, which was briefly mashed up against John's head).

* My lips are at the perfect height to kiss his forehead (this communiqué was provided largely by that same cheek, but the lips agreed with the memo).

* John has a smell. Of course John has a smell. I just didn't know it was…nice (obviously this small note was offered by Sherlock's nose).

* He's so _solid, c_ompact, firm (this missive was offered by pretty much all the nerve endings at the front of Sherlock's body as they happily ran into a large part of the front of John).

And finally:

* I don't believe this, I don't believe this, I don't believe this. I'm getting hard again. Put on your coat Sherlock. Put it on now and say something rude.

"Really John, do you have to _sneak_ around the house like a little mouse?" The detective breezed past his flatmate and said over his shoulder, "How does Angelo's sound?"

Sherlock didn't hear John's answer, too busy thinking about one final piece of data collected by his body:

* Either John was still half hard or good god was he well-hung.

_

* * *

To be continued. Of course._


	2. Chapter 2

Here's a question for the ages: How can you tell when Sherlock Holmes is acting strange?

Right, exactly. _You can't._ Even if you're John Watson you might not be able to tease out the difference between his routine eccentricities—decapitated human head carried home in a box then placed in the fridge beside the butter—and something truly suspicious.

Like Sherlock eating so damn much at dinner that night that John repeatedly had to stop and stare. And no, Sherlock wasn't wolfing his food, he was just, you know, actually _putting it in his mouth._

Sometimes, when he's trying to act normal in public (that's rare, yes, but it's a fact you collect more data when you go unnoticed, and a grown man sitting at a dinner table with seven strangers (one of them the murderer) who still has his untouched pre-dinner salad in front of him while everyone else is burping port and having a second slice of pie does _not _blend), Sherlock will push his food around, piling it in clumps so there are bare spots on the plate and it looks as if he's eaten something.

But tonight the detective wasn't doing that. He was actually lifting the fork—on which there messily dangled pasta in a marinara clam sauce—and he was wrapping his mouth around it and the food was staying in there (John's seen him spit things out when he thinks no one's watching). Then there was chewing and swallowing and by now John has watched this happen through a salad, soup, and a second plate of pasta.

So again, the question: is this rococo behavior for the detective, or is it Sherlock-normal? _How on earth can you tell?_

* * *

Yet if we're going to talk about strange behavior, let's be fair: While Sherlock was away in Glasgow John definitely got up to some odd shenanigans himself.

It didn't start that way. Just before the detective left John was in a perfectly normal delirium of excitement. He'd actually said those words too, when Lestrade asked what he planned for his Sherlock-free time.

"For seven glorious days I'm going to sleep in. Drink my tea while it's hot. Watch crap telly in blessed silence. Catch up on my blog. Clean out the fridge so there's just _food_ in it. Have a cuppa while it's hot—did I say that already?—and Greg, I'm so excited by this I'm delirious."

That's not even remotely how things turned out.

John's first six hours alone were bliss. He woke to silence, dozed again, woke with an erection, dispatched it with precision, rose, padded the flat in a tattered robe, ate, read the paper, looked out the window …watched some telly…cleaned the kitchen table…more telly…then even more telly…until six hours in he was standing at the mantle, petting the skull and muttering, "Nothing ever happens to me."

He considered texting Sherlock but the thought of waiting eagerly for a reply depressed him. He contemplated taking Mrs. Hudson to lunch, but knew they'd talk about Sherlock. Eventually he settled on a walk around London and that went very nicely until a dark-haired man in a long great coat breezed past him outside Starbucks and he actually giggled with relief thinking for a moment his flatmate was back.

And that's when the shenanigans actually began. Because John? He started _following_ that man. Just for a few minutes (thirty-five), sure, but as soon as he caught himself at it he lied to his own face, insisting he'd actually meant to go to the financial district. Yet he and the skull (with whom he discussed this later) knew the truth.

And the truth was this: From that moment outside Starbucks on, John couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock Holmes.

When he got home he reflexively looked for him on the couch. When he put the kettle on he was annoyed the kitchen table was bare of experiments. When an old car backfired he sighed because it wasn't a gunshot. And when, later that night, he found Sherlock's missing grey scarf jammed between the couch cushions, he fished it out held it to his face, and breathed deep.

Then bolted up, threw the scarf down, and stepped away from the thing as if it were about to detonate.

Later on he took it to bed with him, carefully not thinking why, and just as carefully tucking it under his head so he could smell the scent of wool, winter, and his flatmate.

Waking up was interesting.

The sun was out: always good. He felt well-rested: also good. He had another hard-on: very nice. And he was pushing at his erect cock with both hands while he sort of bit on and nuzzled Sherlock's scarf.

John bolted up, threw the scarf down, stepped away from it as if it were a decapitated head.

And then immediately picked it up, laid down, bound both his wrists with it, and wanked as fast as he could.

The shenanigans just got more shenanigan-y after that and Sherlock hadn't even been gone twenty-four hours.

First, John just stopped leaving the flat. Whatever was _out there_ didn't smell like Sherlock, but that smell was _everywhere_ inside 221B. What was it? He thought maybe equal parts chemicals, wool, gunpowder, rosin, tea, mint (his shampoo; John checked), as well as sweat, oils, spit and whatever else comes out of a normal human body. And the smell was…it was…it made John hard.

Second, he started masturbating like he was nineteen again. Sometimes he'd pretend he didn't know why, and sometimes he'd wrap the scarf around his nose and mouth and just breathe in until his legs were spread wide, his hand was a blur of motion, and he was coming all over his fingers or his belly or the damn sitting room rug.

Third, he talked to the skull a _lot_ now, trying to figure out what the hell was going on, when it had started, why it was happening and yet knowing the answers before he'd even asked Bertram/Solomon/Milton (the skull, John decided, had many names) the first question.

You see, it was really rather anti-climactic. Whatever had been missing in John's life before Sherlock—almost everything—wasn't missing now. Asking _why_ was as foolish as asking why food filled you, or why the sun made you warm. They just did.

Finally, by his fourth day alone, John was feeling pretty good. So good in fact that the shenanigans upgraded themselves to outright tomfoolery.

It started in Sherlock's wardrobe, of course.

Because by now the scarf had had it. He'd bit it, sucked on it, wanked over it, and slept with it (not necessarily in that order) for nearly four days. Every Sherlock molecule that was in there was in _him_ or on him by now.

The solution was in Sherlock's bedroom and shhhh, don't tell, but John was in there _forever._

Not that there was anything new to discover because quite frankly Sherlock treated the entire flat as if it were one giant extension of himself, so whether you were in his bedroom, the kitchen, the loo, or the sitting room you were going to find experimental paraphernalia; empty, partially empty, or full boxes of nicotine patches; paperwork for old, cold or current cases; medical, scientific, or crime books; and empty, half-full, or untouched cups of tea. But the only place you could find Sherlock's expensive clothes was in his wardrobe.

_That's_ where John spent the better part of a whole morning, _smelling_ everything, looking at everything (he didn't know Sherlock had a tuxedo, a grey leather jacket, or a fedora), and trying on everything that would fit. The leather jacket looked good on him, the fedora, not so much.

It was almost four hours later that John pulled out possibly Sherlock's favorite piece of clothing: His purple silk shirt. At about this time tomfoolery upgraded itself to outright hanky-panky.

John put the shirt on Sherlock's bed, then crawled over it on hands and knees. For a moment he dipped down, lightly kissed just the place where Sherlock's mouth would be, whispering, "What have you done to me?"

And then John lowered his hips and started to thrust.

The precise anatomical details he imagined were a little sketchy, but they weren't wholly unfamiliar either. Like any proper Brit the doctor didn't talk about sex unless he was extremely drunk, so no one knew he'd had an experience with another boy once, over twenty years ago. They'd kissed, they'd touched each other all over, and in the end they'd masturbated one another, one of them coming, the other too nervous, and that had been that.

So John could _see_ Sherlock on that bed, arms stretched out over his head, long throat bared, grey eyes hooded, though he wasn't quite as detailed on the mechanics of everything else.

Which didn't slow down his grinding hips _at all._

As a matter of fact, all John needed to do was shove his face into the neck of the shirt and breathe in and he _felt_ Sherlock's cool skin beneath him, felt long legs press against his thighs, felt Sherlock's hips rise to meet his.

Aaaand that was it.

John started coming with a groan, pumping breathlessly against the mattress, trying to say Sherlock's name and failing, and oddly aware that despite a near overwhelming need he couldn't bite the shirt—silk stains.

When the last of the orgasm played out he held himself up on his elbows and looked down at the face that was there but wasn't there and again, very gently, very softly, almost shyly, he kissed it.

* * *

Having sex with a mattress you're imagining is your flatmate is giddy, tiring work. As such refueling is usually required directly afterward.

After cleaning up the evidence of his peccadillo, John slid on his t-shirt, wrapped the grey scarf around his neck, draped the purple shirt over his arm, and headed downstairs.

After he made the silk shirt comfortable on the chair beside his, he made tea, which hit the spot (even though they were out of milk). The cheese sandwich he made next was entirely more delightful than it had any right to be, and the small bit of left-over curry he'd ordered night before last? It might as well have been champagne—lumpy, slightly spicy, coconut-infused champagne—for all the spring it put in his step.

That's about the time he heard it coming from a neighbor's flat. Gary Fucking Glitter.

Now seriously, do not tell anyone this, _no one,_ but during one of Glitter's first of many comebacks fifteen-year-old John had crushed hard on the whole glam rock thing. The manifestations of that crush were well-hidden, but had included the purchase of five Glitter compilation albums; awkward dancing (with headphones on), in his bedroom; and once (okay, twice) locking himself in the loo and teasing his hair into a sort of weird puffy something, and plucking his eyebrows.

Meanwhile thirty-something John jumped out of the chair, turned on the boombox gathering dust on the kitchen shelf, and cranked that baby to eleven.

By the time the DJ got to Rock and Roll Part 2 (always John's his favorite) the doctor had stripped off his t-shirt, slid on Sherlock's shirt and was letting the music—and the knowledge that this shirt had recently touched Sherlock's skin—turn him on.

Yet all good things do come to an end, and after two more songs, the glam fest was over. And John realized that despite another growing erection he was fucking freezing.

Though the pull to go back into Sherlock's wardrobe was strong, John resisted, instead raiding his own for the usual suspects: Jeans, t-shirt, and jumper. After dressing he glanced in the mirror, saw the half-smile he couldn't seem to wipe off his face, and had a brilliant idea.

He would go out and pick up some milk.

After nearly four days of cocooning indoors, having serious thinky thoughts about life, the universe, sex with his flatmate, and everything, it really was time to breathe some fresh air.

Color John Watson very surprised when he yanked open the door to 221B and found at his feet the object of his newly-formed affections.

* * *

And we now return to our regularly scheduled program already in progress.

Sitting in Angelo's, watching Sherlock eat was wildly unusual because of the actual _eating_, yes. But it was also profoundly odd and startling and wonderful because the whole thing with the _mouth,_ and the _swallowing_ and the occasional _licking?_ It was leaving John just a little breathless.

Fortunately he didn't have time to stay that way because Sherlock just would not shut up. In between talking about the Glasgow case he kept asking John random, unrelated questions:

Do you prefer dogs or cats? Can you sing? Why did you become a doctor? Are your parents only children? When did that touch of grey appear at your temples? Do you like the wine?

By the time they were done and each too full for comfort, John was wondering how he was going to hide his attraction from Sherlock, and Sherlock—who had listened not to John's replies to his questions, but to his own body's response to the sound of John's voice, his laugh, his silence—was wondering how he was going to tell his flatmate that he quite possibly loved him.

* * *

_Continuing soon... Thoughts?_


	3. Chapter 3

When they got home that night, Sherlock's slim-fit trousers didn't. Which is what derailed _everything._

This will probably come as no surprise to you, but Sherlock Holmes is a rather finely-tuned machine. If half a salad can dampen the fire burning in his brain, can you imagine what a really excellent minestrone, two plates of clam fettuccini, a glass and a half of wine, and a cup of coffee will do?

It hardly bears thinking about, and that's the entire point. Sherlock had gone to that restaurant to observe, record, and deduct, but somehow, between the first plate of noodles and the second, he'd gotten turned around. He _relaxed_ instead of worked, laughed instead of _peered_ and by the time he realized he was forgetting things he needed to remember he'd already added cream to a second cup of coffee.

That's why, once they returned to 221B Sherlock behaved exactly like Sherlock usually behaved. He said something curt, then something mildly nice, told John tea would be lovely, and sat down in front of the telly with a scowl and arms wrapped around his knees.

What Sherlock had _meant_ to do tonight was discover the exact parameters of his attraction to John, learn the boundaries of John's to him, and then discuss with his flatmate how they would proceed. But instead he was so full his stomach stuck out a mile, his trousers were so tight they were cutting off the blood to his brain, and he was very cranky and didn't want to talk about it.

* * *

Except of course he did. Talking out loud is what helps him figure things out. But even Sherlock Holmes knew you didn't just say certain things. Things like:

* John, I saw you sort of naked earlier today and you really, really, reaaaaally looked good. As in better-than-clam-fettuccini good.

* At the sight of you and…and your…my knees gave out, my heart rate hit 156 (yes, he'd counted that too), and I think I had an aneurysm. Or maybe an orgasm. It was hard to tell at the time.

* Just thinking about my clothes against your bare skin makes me breathe funny. Also, if you masturbated while wearing my purple shirt I am going to need that shirt back. Very soon.

* Oh, and as you might have gathered, I _want_ to be asexual, and if anyone asks I _tell_ them I'm asexual but in reality right now all I can think of is your belly and your mouth and your chest and your legs…and of um, spreading them, but…but I'm stuck sitting here in this chair instead, possibly having another aneurysm.

Except of course Sherlock wasn't. He was just watching but not seeing what was on the telly, hugging his knees tight (as if mashing his third erection in as many hours would make it go away) and getting even more cranky, all while the straight man in this relationship—in more ways than one—was going with the flow.

You see, while Sherlock was away and John was…mmm…_entertaining_ himself around the flat, each and every time looking at, wearing, or smelling a piece of Sherlock's clothes, he was not only having a grand old time spreading the love, it turns out he was also coming to surprisingly easy terms with his feelings—his profoundly romantic, definitely sexual feelings—for another man.

Don't think that's possible? Try facing death sometime. Or no, don't, because the knowledge gained comes at such a high price it's not worth it. Except when it is.

It was three on an Afghan afternoon when John was shot. For two hours after they couldn't stop the bleeding; some wounds are like that: vital, alive. As a result John had coded there on the table—died, as in dead, in a mobile army surgical hospital. It was only for a few seconds they said later, but how many do you need?

One second is enough, one bullet is enough, more than enough to make your brain work better afterward, to make you a touch more flexible, more reasonable, more inclined to accept happiness wherever you find it, instead of worrying about straight, gay, bi, doctor, detective, tall, short…whatever.

Yes, it had been weird to realize he was in love with his male flatmate. For the first couple of hours it had kind of made him nauseous he was that surprised and scared. But he'd talked to Emmeline/Theodora/Elspeth (the skull changes genders as easily as names) and in the end what could he say? Maybe, "Wow, what took me so long?"

And kudos for John, right? Yet while he was coping with all this upheaval in mature and mellow silence, the detective was becoming ever more irked and, frankly, _stupid._

Which is why, when John placed a cup of tea at Sherlock's elbow, saying, "Anything good on?" Sherlock jumped a guilty mile and blurted, "Go away John, I can't focus with you _breathing."_

Oh. So not good.

The doctor put the tea down carefully, stood up rigidly, and did nothing for three long seconds. Then he finally said, "Welcome home," and left the room.

From the corner of his eyes Sherlock watched him go, regretting his own words instantly—a more frequent occurrence than anyone would ever know. "Come back," he tried to say but didn't, because it seemed that someone had punched him in the stomach and he couldn't breathe.

* * *

For the rest of the night Sherlock listened to John's movements—tooth brushing, shoes falling to the floor, the squeak of his bed—until John stopped moving around eleven. After that the detective listened to his own breathing for awhile. After _that _he started counting the sound of car horns, car alarms, and shouts filtering in from outside. By two in the morning he was ready to talk, but John wasn't there to talk to.

Fine. It was all fine. With a sigh Sherlock unfolded (erection long since gone), and drifted over to the mantle.

Pressing his forehead to the wall, he looked down at the skull, traced its coronal suture with his finger. "I didn't mean it," he said softly.

_Then why'd you say it?_

Sherlock frowned, finger dancing over the lambdoid suture. "I didn't know what else to say."

_Well then why not try shutting up?_

"I—"

_Take John for example. He could have said something rude in return but he didn't._

"He—"

_Or he could have jumped all over you when you got home from Glasgow, did you think of that? Could have started talking about love and kisses and sex and all that drippy stuff that makes you so nervous._

"I'm not—"

_But he gave you _space,_ Sherlock_._ He gave you some _respect._ He was _nice._ Have you tried that? Because you should for once. At least with John._

"I—"

_Or better yet, why don't you just tell him to leave, to move out. That would be kinder._

Sherlock stopped breathing for a second. "Nooo," he moaned. "No no no no no."

_Why not?_

"Because—"

He waited, but the skull did not cut him off.

"Because I love him."

_And?_

"What do you mea—"

_And so why are you—_ and here the skull employed air quotes —_deducing, observing, recording? Fuck that shit, Sherlock. Why don't you just walk up to him and tell him what you just told me?_

Sherlock took a ragged breath. "Because he might…because—"

_Because you're scared._

"I'm not—"

_Don't lie to me. You know you can't lie to me._

"I'm not ly—"

_Oh. I get it. You're lying to yourself. Good. Stellar. Really well done._

"That's—"

_Fine. Do nothing. Just do nothing._

"I—"

_You know what? Go away. Just go away. I don't want to talk to you right now._

Sherlock blinked fast a few times, surprised. This had never happened before. Usually he found _resolution, _answers, a little clarification.

He stared at the skull for a good minute but nothing happened. "Fine," he muttered, spinning away from the mantle, stalking toward the kitchen. "It's all just _fine."_

And with righteous indignation as his ally it was, for a whole four or five seconds. Right up to the point were Sherlock flicked on the kitchen light and saw John's almost ubiquitous striped jumper, draped across a chair.

"John…" he sighed, drifting forward, he a tide and that jumper the moon. He could not have resisted its pull if you had handed him the case of the century.

He let his hand brush over the jumper, casually, as if by accident. He let his fingers pluck it up, casually, as if he didn't know what they did. And when he had it firmly in his hand, he turned around and left the kitchen and would have gone to his bedroom except he—casually—brought the jumper to his face, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

It was John. It was John smiling, it was John laughing, it was John listening, it was John talking, it was John looking at him and…and…liking him. It was John. It was John. It was John.

A wave of longing washed over Sherlock so powerful his knees buckled. He tripped to the couch, fell to it heavily, held the jumper to his face. He wanted to crawl inside it, surround it, _be_ it. He wanted…oh god he wanted John.

Fortunately for Sherlock, longing is tiring. Fortunately for him his thirty-four year old body couldn't cope with the intense rush of feelings every sixteen-year-old knows as an old friend. And fortunately for him, almost no one is as stupid as he believes. Especially John.

So when the good doctor came downstairs the next morning and found Sherlock Holmes curled on his side on the sofa, sleeping with one of John's jumpers hugged to his bare, pale chest, the good doctor…well he figured out a few things.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	4. Chapter 4

Sometimes you fight. Sometimes you don't.

Every soldier knows this. Every battlefield doctor who's ever had to choose _this_ one, or _that_ one does, too. And so John knows it twice.

Sometimes you fight Sherlock Holmes, sometimes you don't. Sometimes you just let him be a petulant bastard because it's the same as letting him cry it out or have a tantrum, exactly the same.

So despite provocation—"Go away John, I can't focus with you _breathing."—_John didn't fight back that night. Instead he gave up, walked away, took the stairs two at a time. He went to bed soon after, figuring pretty much nothing had changed, and never would.

And then, the next day, it did.

_

* * *

_

_You care. I knew you did._

John stood by the couch in the half-light of six a.m., looking down at a sleeping Sherlock. Naked but for his trousers, the detective's long arms and body were wrapped around John's striped jumper, his face tucked into its collar. He looked cold. Fragile. At peace.

John sank to his knees beside the couch, wanted to touch the sleeping man's pale body but didn't. Instead he let a hand hover close, just over Sherlock's hand and let the other man's body heat put a blush in his cheeks, start his heart tripping fast.

_Did you just figure it out, too? Are we on the same page? And what do I do now?_

What you do now, if you're John Watson, is you _look._ You look because Sherlock is sleeping and he's half-dressed and he's barely one foot away from you.

Yet, since you are, indeed, John Watson, an upright sort of man most of the time, you're going to feel guilty looking since the man under your careful, slow scrutiny doesn't realize he is, doesn't realize your gaze is sliding over the long, sleek swell of muscle in his arms; staring at the steady, vibrant pulse in his deliciously long neck; faltering and coming to rest awhile at the sweet little depression of his belly button…

John cleared his throat softly, which can be done though it's hard to do without a little choking noise that you're scared just woke your flatmate but it turns out it didn't so you start breathing again and then you let your guilty conscience give you what you think is a good idea but which probably isn't, an idea that has the skull waving its metaphorical arms in a violent _No! No, don't do that!_ gesture, but of course John didn't see metaphorical arms, he just saw Sherlock.

So John stripped off his shirt, the idea being that it put the two of them on equal footing now, and that Sherlock wouldn't be embarrassed when he woke and yes it was a dumb idea and of course the skull was thinking, _Dude, have you even actually _met _this guy?_

Yes, well. Fast forward twenty minutes later, with Sherlock waking up and a lot of things happening kind of fast.

First, Sherlock realized he was half-dressed and cuddling John's jumper tightly. And that John was not sixteen inches away from him and had no doubt seen him in the act of jumper cuddling. Then he realized that John was leaning against the coffee table, staring out the window, and wearing no clothes. Or at least no clothes on his top half. And finally Sherlock realized he was sporting one hell of an erection (where was his body _getting _these things? A Tesco's sale?), and that he, Sherlock Holmes, quite possibly wanted to drop dead from mortification.

Oh sure, you're tempted to laugh, but don't. After all a bold man isn't _always _bold. And a man arrogantly certain of his mental gifts may be wildly uncertain of his physical ones. As a matter of fact, he may be terrified he has none. And then there's this: What if John wanted him to…what if they started to…well…what if Sherlock didn't know _how?_

Because honestly, he doesn't, not really. His only experience is twenty years gone and if you think a fifteen year old has any clue what he's doing with another fifteen year old we've got a nice piece of Kensington property for you, going cheap.

One thing we'll say for Sherlock: He is fast. All of this doubt and panic took only four seconds to wash his body cold and then cheek-flushingly hot. And it's that flush creeping over him, that absolutely clear sign that he's aroused, freaked out, and emotionally about twelve that has Sherlock finally doing the most sensible thing in the world (if you're Sherlock), which is bolting upright from the couch—all stiff arms and legs like some sort of Frankenstein monster—and fleeing the room without a word.

A little startled, the good doctor rose to his knees and watched his flatmate vanish round the corner and out of sight. And after a moment's thought, John Watson smiled.

* * *

Smiled? Seriously? Yes, well, there were a few reasons for that.

* First off: Staring? Do you seriously think John was _that_ out of it? On the contrary, he'd been perfectly aware that Sherlock was awake. He'd simply stayed still and quiet to give the man time to do whatever Sherlocks do when they wake up from cuddling jumpers all night. Apparently the first thing they do is reflexively clutch the jumper tighter, a small motion easily detected in peripheral vision.

* Also obvious to the observant: The all-over blush that turns pale flesh a sensual shade darker, and the sound of a single ragged breath being pulled in through an open mouth.

* Finally, there's the little matter that when Sherlock and his erection (a good doctor _notices_ things about the human body, it's in the damn job description) had fled the scene, well, they _took the jumper with them._

So yes, as he tugged his pajama top and tatty robe back on, John was smiling, secure in the knowledge that things were proceeding apace. But seven hours later? Yeah, that smile was _long_ since gone.

Because seriously, who stays in their room for seven hours, John wanted to know. Who doesn't need to _pee_ at least, for seven hours? Sherlock bloody Holmes, apparently.

"This is really too much," John muttered as he swept the floor. "Hiding. I mean that's what he's doing, just hiding," he said, putting away the dishes. "And from what? The great big mean jumper-wearing monster," he groused, dabbing at the mantle with a moth-eaten feather duster he'd found under the sink.

"Frankly, it's absurd," John said, feathers poking into the skull's big emo eye sockets.

_Yes, well you know how he is._

"I should just knock on the door and tell him I know how he feels about me."

_You should._

"Except he's going to be an idiot about it."

_Not if you take control. Be a BAMF._

"I could always—excuse me, what?"

_Don't give him time to _think.

"Right, yes. But what was that other thing? BAF?"

_BAMF. That's you, little guy. Bad ass mother fucker._

John blinked fast a few times. Then said, "Could you not call me little guy please?"

_But you are and it makes me want to cuddle you._

"I couldn't have moved into a normal house with a normal flatmate and a normal skull?"

_Do you listen to yourself sometimes?_

"Unfortunately I do."

_Anyway._

"Yes, BAMF. I see your point. It's a good point. I've noticed that Sherlock does let me boss him around, so long as he gets to pretend I'm not bossing him around."

_Honestly, he doesn't think anyone _can. _He's really not very bright sometimes._

The good doctor broke into a fit of giggles.

"What's so funny?"

John spun around and stepped away from the mantle in one smooth, guilty-looking motion. "Just nothing. Just, thinking. Nothing." John pasted a smile on his face. It felt weird. "So, having a…good day?"

_BAMF, little guy, B-A-M-F._

John tried hard not to turn and look at the mantle.

Ignoring John's comment, Sherlock plucked up his coat, scarf and gloves. "Off out," he muttered, turning to go.

"Great, me too," John blurted, gesturing briefly with the feather duster.

His back to the room, to John, Sherlock stopped.

"Back late, too. I'll pick up some milk on the way home." _This was not BAMF. John didn't know what this was, but he forged ahead anyway._ "Need anything?"

Sherlock just stood there, one step from the doorway, not answering.

"Well great. When I get back I'm going to need my laptop to book myself into a conference in Cardiff. So, you know, finish up whatever it is you do on the damn thing while I'm out, thanks." _Lying, he was lying. Why the heck was he lying?_

With a final manly wave of the feather duster, John started moving past Sherlock, on his way to his own bedroom. His foot was on the first step, too, when he heard it. Very low. This-is-unbelievably-hard-for-me-so-please-don't-make-it-harder low.

"John."

The doctor stopped, back to Sherlock, just as Sherlock had stopped before, back to him. _Now_ was he being a BAMF? John didn't know.

Softer still, "John."

_"Great, me too. Back late. Conference." _In his bones Sherlock knew that all those words were just a code, an easy-to-break code for _Oh, didn't I say? I'm leaving. I'm out of here. Gone. Done. It's over. We're over. And just think: We hadn't even _started_ yet._

"John…"

Sherlock is trying, so help him he's trying to say somethingmore. But nothing else is coming to his mouth or to his brain. Saying this one name is all he can do and so god help him he's going to do it.

Standing there, with a hand on the railing and his gaze lifted to the top of the stairs, the doctor couldn't make himself turn around. He realized belatedly that he was angry. Finally. Very ready to have that fight he'd missed before.

At last John moved, started to climb. _Off out._

He only made it to the fourth stair before the knot in his stomach and the lump in his throat stopped him. "Sherlock?" His voice isn't low or soft.

The sound of movement behind him and then the answer unexpectedly close. "Yes John?"

The doctor turned and Sherlock was at the foot of the stairs, looking up at him. John felt a sudden giddy surge of pleasure poke him in the solar plexus. Sherlock usually manages to look down at you even when he's sitting and you're standing. He wasn't doing that now.

"Why were you hugging my jumper this morning?"

A direct question. Usually those are a Sherlock specialty. Apparently now they're on John's conversational menu, too.

The detective's brows crept high, but he answered. "Because I saw you dancing…in my clothes."

John nodded a little, surprised that Sherlock knew about that, but then again not really. He was a Holmes. They just seemed to…know things.

"Okay then," the good doctor said, and waited. Because certainly there had to be more words. Sherlock always had so many damn words that there had to be more. So help him John wasn't carrying this alone, no, if he was jumping into an abyss at the bottom of which might be rejection, he wasn't jumping alone. And so he waited.

Quite in vain, as it turned out. For down there at he foot of the stairs the detective frowned. He knew John wanted him to say something else, but Sherlock didn't _have_ anything else.

The skull, meanwhile, was having a nervous breakdown because seriously, what should have been _so easy_ these two were mucking up with ego and id and silence and _shit,_ couldn't they just get to the hugging and the kissing and the humping already?

Apparently no. Not yet.

In the uncomfortable silence John listened to Sherlock breathing.

Sherlock listened to his own pulse pounding in his ears.

Then John, misinterpreting what bad ass mother fucker really means, turned and marched up the stairs, back straight, arms stiff at his sides.

And for awhile nothing changed at 221B, and maybe it never would.

_

* * *

Don't hit me! I know this silly fic went angsty and that's just not right. But I'm well into chapter five and it all gets better. With sexy times. Promise._


	5. Chapter 5

What? Seriously?

"Nothing changed and maybe it never would?" What complete prat said _that?_

Oh, right, we did, as we watched two of Baker Street's finest act like idiots what with their vague misunderstandings; the things pointedly not said; the willful obtuseness; the brains muddled by trepidation and hormones and, oh yes, led astray by some pretty bad advice from a certain skull who shall remain nameless.

Well fuck all that. It's time to cut through the crap and _get_ somewhere. Since this all started with Glitter, it damn well's going to end with Glitter, and you can take _that_ to the bank.

But wait, we're getting ahead of ourselves, aren't we? Okay then, let's just rewind a little and revisit a few things, shall we?

* * *

First: Sherlock went on a trip to Glasgow and happened to leave not only his scent all over the flat (inconsiderate bastard) but an entire wardrobe of clothing as well. Once John Watson tripped over the fact that he was in love with his flatmate, one thing inevitably led to another and there was masturbation with a grey scarf, wanking with a purple shirt, and come in parts of the flat that frankly had never seen it.

That sounds promising doesn't it? Yes, it does. Moving on.

What happened after that was equally momentous, what with Sherlock Holmes coming home early and walking in on the nearly-naked doctor wearing his clothes, then finding himself stumbling head-long into a very belated sexual awakening, so many hard-ons that eventually he lost count, and a sneaking suspicion that the doctor, his doctor might not only be in love with him, but may also be remarkably well-hung.

This just gets better and better, it really does. So again, moving on.

One thing led to another and pretty soon these two crazy kids were having dinner out, both so busy doing a rather good tango with their attraction to the other that they completely forgot to, you know, _tell_ one another how they felt. Honestly, for two men who have found their way in the world with a certain degree of success, John and Sherlock certainly seem to be brass-plated idiots sometimes.

Fine, anyway, moving on.

So then what started out so promisingly went quickly south when horny!Sherlock became bastard!Sherlock and told John to "stop breathing" or rude words to that effect, and John, instead of just saying, "Fuck you, you beautiful man, kiss me," he went and sulked himself off to bed, while the detective found an orphan jumper and went on to became in rapid progression guilty Sherlock, desirous Sherlock, and then sleepy Sherlock.

At this point things are starting to sound like a soap opera, aren't they? Well it just gets worse. Onward.

Then we get to the _really?_ are you two seriously this dumb? portion of our program, the one where a doctor sort of hovers a little too much, a detective wakes up with yet another hard-on and some nerves, and instead of just _sitting tight for once_ and using their words, these two go pell mell about the flat, try and follow crappy advice from the skull, use the stairs as a prop for yet another misunderstanding and, if we're being honest, and we are, this is just getting tiring at this point.

So, let's move on, get the soundtrack going, and finally just _get somewhere._

* * *

After the debacle on the stairs John meant to be all dramatic and vacate the flat before Sherlock could, but he didn't quite manage it. Neither, actually, did Sherlock. The reason, of course, was neither had actually _wanted_ to leave in the first place, so instead of fleeing the premises and wandering the streets like over-large urchins, both simply holed up in their separate rooms, thinking furiously.

John's thoughts were pretty simple and somewhat un-John like: It's your turn, Sherlock. Seriously. If you saw me dancing around naked, dick waving to the four winds while I cuddled your clothes, then I've done my part mate and it's really, really your turn. I showed you mine, you mad detective, now it's seriously time for you to show me yours.

Sherlock's thoughts were slightly different: It was something like bah-dum-bah-dum. No, it was hey hey. Bugger, it wasn't either of those. It was more—wait. I could just call. Give them the date and time. They'd know. Of course they would. It's their job. Oh, that's perfect. Yes. Of course it is. Now…come here you striped jumper, you.

What happened next was that John had to pee. Of course he did, he drinks probably fifteen cups of tea a day, you do that and you'll be in the loo on the hour every hour, too. And then once he was out of his room and puttering around, he started remembering yesterday, just before Sherlock got home, remembering how _happy_ he'd been just grooving, thinking about his flatmate…and falling in love.

John sighed, looked at himself in the mirror over the fireplace, squared his shoulders. Okay. Fine. _Fine._ If someone here _had_ to be the bigger man, then the littler man decided he would step up and be that man. Yes, John was going to go tell Sherlock he loved him and he was…_oh sweet baby Jesus._ John grabbed the edge of the mantle as his knees turned to water in seconds. Until just now he'd had no clue you could get _this_ nervous _that_ quickly.

Busy having something of a small cardiac event John at first didn't hear the clear, well-modulated voice. And then he did.

_People have shot bullets at you John._

"What?"

_You've had your hands inside another person's guts—while that person was still alive._

"Hu?"

_I would think the stress you'll face over this one tiny little declaration pales in comparison to those things, wouldn't you?_

John stared at the skull. (Unlike Sherlock he rarely touched it, which made the skull sad, but Elspeth/Solomon was proud and would not beg.) "Are you supposed to initiate conversations? Is that even possible? I mean you're a figment of my imagination, you have to wait for _me_ to engage _you,_ don't you?"

_We're getting off track John. Ask yourself: Why are you nervous?_ (The skull used to be a therapist, did we say?)

John opened his mouth to reply. Closed it. Opened it again. "Rejection. Of course."

_He rejects you every day._

John's eyebrows flew up his forehead. "Well that's true." From cups of tea to his opinion on a case, Sherlock was always saying "No thank you," to something John was offering.

_So what's the big diff here, little man?_ (Did we mention that this is an American skull? Came over here at twenty-two. Set up a therapy practice near the Royal Courts of Justice. Anyway, this isn't about the skull. That's another story, actually. Told soon.)

"For a British man I am not really considered short, you know."

The skull said nothing.

"It's true. It's just that Sherlock's particularly—bugger it. I'm arguing with my own mind about how tall I am. This is ridiculous."

John sighed, squared his shoulders again, turned around and headed toward Sherlock's bedroom. If he lingered at the mantle even one more moment he knew he'd start pulling up websites to prove he was of mostly average height, and show them to a skull. The one that, you know, had no eyes.

John giggled. "I think this place is making me insane."

It was on that fine note, and just before John crossed into the hallway toward Sherlock's room that he heard it. And it was loud. _Very, very loud._

John stopped dead, blood turned to ice water in an instant, and then to fire. _Oh dear god._

The good doctor closed his eyes, felt his breathing go ragged in a flash. And then it hit, the longing, the _desire,_ so strong that it made his knees feel like jelly (a lot of weak knees here at 221B, did you notice that?).

John gazed into the dark hallway, into a wall of sound, into a wall of Glitter. _It's your turn, Sherlock._ Well it certainly seemed the detective had heard those thoughts.

Dry throated and yes, you guessed it, already half hard (because apparently that will now forever be his reaction to hearing Rock and Roll Part 2), John drifted forward, heart thrumming hummingbird fast, breathing shallow, hands fisted nervously at his sides.

Rounding the corner John saw Sherlock's bedroom door was open but he did not at first see Sherlock. The doctor stopped in the hall, fingers now spread wide as if feeling for an unseen current. Because John knew that right here, right now, everything was about to change. For better or worse.

The doctor stepped up to Sherlock's bedroom door and looked in.

And quite promptly had his heart broken into a dozen pieces.

For sitting on his bed, legs tugged tight to his chest, forehead to his knees, Sherlock Holmes looks so much like a child waiting patiently to be hurt, a barefoot child in a purple silk shirt, a gray scarf, and black trousers, holding tight to a striped jumper as if it were salvation.

"Oh, Sherlock."

The detective heard that soft exhalation as if it had been a shout. He lifted his head and looked at John and what the doctor saw in those grey eyes nearly made him weep.

Doubt, fear, loneliness, and a half dozen other things Sherlock took pains every day to hide, ignore, deny.

It was instinct that sent John to his knees right there a half dozen feet from the man on the bed, and instinct that propelled Sherlock to him, gathering the smaller man in his arms to comfort, to murmur endearments, to even pet his head…things Sherlock Holmes had done exactly never in the entirety of his thirty-four years.

And that's the point. Had John—a much stronger man than Sherlock in almost every way and don't you doubt that—taken the initiative and touched Sherlock, well that touch, no matter how gentle or slow, would have been too much, too freighted with meaning, a bit wrong no matter how right it was.

But _this,_ this was right in every way. To hold his John, to soothe him, to pretend for even a little while that he was the stronger man, the wiser man, the _kinder _man…it gave him courage when just moments before he'd had none.

A courageous Sherlock is much more bold than one waltzing with old fears, old doubts, and even older loneliness. Oh yes he is.

He rose up on his knees and with John's face captured in his hands he brought the other man with him. He leaned down, close enough to kiss but he didn't kiss, just breathed John in with an open mouth and closed eyes, tasting each of the other man's exhalation, rolling on his tongue the flavor of every breath, noticing—how could he not—that the taste of them changed as John's respiration became faster and then faster still.

He turned his head, pressed his temple against John's, dipped his nose in John's fresh-washed hair and breathed deep here too, realized that this smell was already so familiar to him—from dinners over tiny restaurant tables, from lurking shoulder-to-shoulder down alleys—that it alone was enough to make his body shake.

And what a fine and delicious mystery that was—the greatest mystery his mind has ever had to untangle—how this man who has given much and taken so little, who has been gently silent when he should have raged, how he could undo a man who has never, not one time, _wanted_ to be undone.

"But you do," Sherlock breathed into John's ear, then against the soft heat of his neck, "You undo me, you take me apart."

John arched his neck, sighed out a moan, fisted his hands against his thighs to still the trembling, then moaned again when he felt Sherlock's fingertips move delicately across his throat, discovering, exploring, learning its curves, its heat, its pulse points.

When the very warm tip of one of Sherlock's long fingers stroked down into the hollow between his collar bones John groaned through gritted teeth. Yet still John did not lift his hands, and still Sherlock did not kiss him, instead pressed his face again into the other man's neck as if he'd done it a thousand times before, as if it were home.

And oh good god breathing was so emphatically _not_ boring, how could it be when it filled your lungs with air _worth_ breathing for the first time in your life, when just breathing him in fills you up and makes you whole and normal and _right?_

Sherlock pulled away just enough to look at John and to_ pet_ him again and how odd was that, this man who really doesn't touch people, doing something as childlike as stroking at another person's soft hair, then their blond-stubbled cheeks and eyelids and mouth?

And he didn't stop, would not stop because there was too much to catch up on, too many touches he'd missed and so he touched every inch of John's face, all of it, over and over, with his hands—fingers through hair, over the curves of both ears, along jaw and brow and nose, and then with his own face—cheek pressed against cheek, nose to nose, forehead to forehead, then fluttery eyelashes to fluttery eyelashes.

_And now I'll know your face forever,_ he thought and of course he actually would because that's how Sherlock's brain works, it holds on with a fierceness to things it wants (and sometimes to things it doesn't) and he's never wanted anything as much as he has wanted John.

So now, as of tonight, this hour he would remember everything and would know John by touch alone, by smell, by sound, of course by sight and finally…Sherlock bent his head and pressed his mouth against John's neck…by taste.

And at last John Watson touched Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

John has read exactly two romance novels in his life, both when he was seventeen and hoping for some explicit sex, and if not explicit sex then strongly _implied_ sex, and if not strongly implied sex than maybe a little titillation or stimulation or _something_ to get him hot and get him off.

Instead both books had been of the old-fashioned Barbara Cartland-type where an ellipsis is all you get, when three full stops are meant to stand in for sweat and spread legs and thrusting and groaning and come all over everything, and so you're no more informed than you were when you started, and turned on only just enough to be frustrated but not fulfilled.

Why are we bringing this up? Because it's the only way to explain why John's mind absolutely waxed rhapsodic when he finally touched Sherlock, why his brain exploded with romantically delicate and tender phrases like "soft as moonlight" and "fragile as glass" and why he wanted to barely rest his hands anywhere for long so afraid he'd leave a bruise, break a bone, or shatter a heart.

Fortunately John's brain wasn't the only participant, his body was in on the action as well and it wanted to capture Sherlock's head and hold it, hold it against his neck where lips pressed soft and where a tongue was tasting and teeth were gently scraping, and so that's what he did.

Until he did something else, which was to pull Sherlock gently away from his throat because already he knew that if left to himself Sherlock would narrow his attention, absorbed on one spot, until he had utterly rung from it everything it had to give.

And so with fingertips barely pressed against a sharp-planed jaw John lifted Sherlock's head, looked into those smoky, odd eyes and leaned toward him just enough so that he understood.

And oh…he understood.

That's when sixteen inches became eight, eight turned into four, four whittled itself to two and he met John in the middle, their mouth's coming together for the first time, and if you ask John who moaned he'll say it was Sherlock, ask Sherlock and he'll tell you it was John and each would be right.

They were gentle, both of them, that kiss a soft and breathless thing, slow and tender and so long that neither could have told you how long it was, only that when one pulled away a little the other followed, reclaiming until lips ghosted over lips again, then pressing harder, until it started again with a tiny retreat and another recapture.

Finally, when Sherlock wove his fingers into John's, holding so tight it hurt, the doctor's fear that this too thin, too pale creature was also too fragile started to unravel and without thinking he ducked his head, buried his face against Sherlock's neck and bit soft enough for pleasure, hard enough to make the other man groan.

Which made Sherlock pull away suddenly, sit back on his heels, and look at John with an expression a little stunned.

_This is it,_ the doctor's brain babbled to itself,_ I screwed up! I knew it! I knew I would break him, hurt him, go too far. Stupid John, stupid John, stupid—_

"John?"

Sherlock leaned in again fast, laced his fingers into John's hair and said against his mouth, "Come to bed with me. Please, please come to bed with me."

_

* * *

Long chapter is long. Continuing shortly, of course (probably tomorrow). Most definitely. Good lord you couldn't stop me here for a thousand dollars._


	6. Chapter 6

_Please come to bed with me._

Sherlock said it with desire, desperation, and definitely a very real fear that John would say no. Because John's straight, right? Isn't he? _I mean isn't he?_

"Sherlock bloody Holmes, I will come to bed with you, and I will do anything you ask me to do for as long as you ask me to do it, and I will have to be physically pried off your body because from this point in time until the very end of time I plan on doing nothing more than making love to you."

Wow. We mean _wow,_ give that man a cigar. Because _that, _dear friends, is one _hell_ of a good answer to an extremely vulnerable question. So good, as a matter of fact, that it instantly shot Sherlock to the absolute brim with sexual self-confidence, finally waking in him the sensuality natural to just about every healthy human, and so in response Sherlock bloody Holmes actually bowed his head, looked at John through long lashes, and ran his tongue over his lips. Then he took John's libido and put 220 volts right through it by turning around and _crawling_ to his bed.

Sweet baby Jesus the doctor quite nearly broke skin he bit his own hand so hard. And then, of course, he followed the other man—on _his _hands and knees.

Which is really rather a good way to start your first time with your One True Love don't you think? Because you simply can't be overly serious when you crawl. You can be sexy, oh yes, you can be sensual, most certainly, but we dare you to be grave or solemn or somber when you're scrabbling on all fours. It can't be done.

So what could have started soberly, intensely, with far too much import, instead began with two grown men climbing onto a soft bed, then onto each other, and laughing a good long while into one another's mouths.

And _then_ things turned serious because yes, this was a big deal and John, he's straight right? Doesn't that matter? Shouldn't that matter? Sherlock knew it mattered and so he stopped laughing in slow degrees even though he didn't want to because John's breath actually smelled different when he laughed, sweeter somehow, lighter, but eventually they went quiet and Sherlock asked directly because that's what Sherlocks do. "Aren't you straight John?"

Well, answering that one question could easily take a one hundred page dissertation, not including notes and charts. They could talk all night about this. Probably all month. Maybe for the rest of the year.

"I guess not, Sherlock."

_Or not._

It so happens that turnabout is fair play, so John asked, "Aren't you asexual?"

And the answer to _that_ could take a two hundred page dissertation with footnotes, Venn diagrams, an extensive glossary, and possibly a few ancient Druid texts, but Sherlock just shrugged and said, "I wish," and then amended quickly by saying, "I _used _to wish. I wanted to be. I tried to be. I even almost succeeded. And then you moved in."

Which got both of them thinking, which is really not what you're supposed to be doing right after some really spectacular kissing, which John finally realized a few seconds before Sherlock did, and so with soft smiles they came in together again and kissed again, this time not quite so gently, and then not gently at all, but with open mouths and groans and darting, lapping, licking tongues and careful bites until both of them were panting, legs all tangled together, hips rutting against one another's thighs.

And frankly that felt so spectacular that they stayed at it a good long while, bodies rubbing against each other in new and stimulating ways, tongues tasting first mouths and then necks and inside ears and wrists and then, with a fast and breathless unbuttoning, inside shirts until one man's mouth was on another man's nipples and—

Sherlock arched his back right off the bed. "Oh god," he rasped, his voice as deep as John had ever heard it, his fingers fisted in the doctor's hair and holding his head right there, right _there_ over a nipple that was brain-rattlingly sensitive, with a hotline to every nerve ending between his legs.

"Again," he said hoarsely, and then almost pushed John off when the second bite-nip-suck proved more intense than the first.

"Again," he said, screwing his eyes shut, and thrashing when John switched to the other nipple, teasing with his tongue, his lips, his teeth until Sherlock _did_ push him away with a strangled groan.

"You okay?" the doctor murmured and the answer was two hands pushing him down again, down to first one very hard nipple and then another until he couldn't stand it and again thrashed away with an almost pained groan.

"Sherlock," John whispered against the detective's thin chest, "should I stop, is this too much?"

No no no no no, too many words, too many _words_ making Sherlock _think,_ think about something he didn't know how to think about, about sex, about what he needed or wanted, thinking about it made him feel stupid and if he felt stupid he got rude and when he got rude he—

John sat up suddenly. "Take it off," he said, tugging at Sherlock's shirt. The doctor was no mind reader but he was also not a fool. If Sherlock needed him to stop he'd _make_ him stop. In the meantime…"Off."

Sherlock didn't move for a moment, overwhelmed in too many ways to process then, undressing on his back on the bed—which is very sexy in case you were wondering—he tugged the purple silk off. He left the grey scarf on, however, and against his white skin that dark scrap of much-loved wool (John bit his lip thinking about it) looked absurd, endearing, erotic.

"Do me."

Sherlock frowned, confused, so John lifted his arms over his head.

The detective's face cleared. Again John's instincts had not faltered, because more than Sherlock wanted to give up, run away, freak out (all contemplated options the second things got intense)—more than any of those, Sherlock wanted to see John's body. Then, when John closed his eyes as he felt hot fingers touch his skin, Sherlock just _wanted._

"John, John, John," the younger man murmured, rising on his knees until the jumper and the t-shirt were free, "Oh…oh…oh," he said, touching the pink buds of John's nipples before he fell forward as John leaned back and took him down with him.

When their bodies met together on the bed, that's when everything stopped—and everything started.

Sherlock's body stopped moving, while Sherlock's brain started going into overdrive absorbing data—oh but there was so much _there_ there. John's bare body was all heat and ribs, belly button and nipple, pounding heart and freckles. He wanted to touch everything at once, look at all of him, smell and taste and _remember._

And then John, wonderful John, so smart he raises the IQ of the whole street John, shut that frantic, crazy over-heated brain down by arching his back, and with a breathy moan, sighing Sherlock's name.

Finally, at last, it's about time, and hallelujah Sherlock stopped being overwhelmed or self-conscious or distractible and got down to the business of going down.

And this is where instinct finally kicked in for the near-virgin detective because, though he had never given a blow job in his life, the _desire_ to give one, to tug at John's trousers, feel them yield, feel _him_ yield was so strong that no one checked in with Sherlock's brain to see if he was precisely aware of the mechanics, it was just full steam ahead and _ahoy there we have an erection!_

Okay, that momentarily stopped everything while Sherlock positively _ate John up_ with his eyes.

Sherlock's seen other men's cocks before. Even someone as physically private as the detective must use public lavatories, but he's seen exactly three erect penises in his life: His own and that of two actors in a porno he'd watched for a case once. (No seriously, a suicide note had actually quoted the thing—and said so—and once Sherlock viewed the movie he realized it wasn't a suicide but a murder. They found the killer, too.)

Anyway, John's is the first live erection he's ever seen beside his own and the only one for which his mouth has actually watered. Literally. Sherlock thought if he opened his mouth right now he might drown a small village. So instead he leaned forward on tented fingers, lowered himself down, and rubbed his face, then his neck, then his chest along John's extremely hard, very perfect cock.

And oh boy he could have got caught in a heady little feedback loop here as well, but the third time he did it John arched his hips gently as Sherlock's lips coasted by and finally an anchor was thrown overboard and Sherlock settled down, opened his mouth, felt John's cock slide in and honest to god got goosebumps all over his body.

And right about then is the first time John heard Sherlock's tendency to do with moaning what he does with so many other things: Take it clean over the top and to the other side.

Not content to simply sigh breathlessly as John pushed into his mouth, Sherlock moaned with such a bold, hungry extravagance that John literally stopped thinking and bucked so hard that he was sure he'd just choked Sherlock. Sherlock, however, seemed utterly unaware of anything unusual (Have you seen the _neck _on that man? If someone can deep throat it is going to be Sherlock.) and continued to suck on John as if he'd found the thing he pretty much meant to do for the rest of his life.

What Sherlock did not do, at first, was provide any additional friction with his hands. That was fine, at first, because John was in such a passionate lather, drowning quite happily in the extremity of the sensations caused by having the mouth of Sherlock bloody Holmes on him that he was in no hurry to get off.

As a matter of fact he was so delirious with the sensations he started doing what Sherlock does—he started _thinking._

Sherlock's mouth is hot…and I'm _in_ Sherlock's mouth. And he _wants_ me there. And those moans…dear sweet lord why is that the sexiest thing I have ever heard? He sounds like he's trying to project to the cheap seats he's so…so…loud and throaty and…oh dear god were those his teeth? Did his teeth just touch the hea—the hea—the heaad of—oh god oh god don't come John, if you come already I am going to kill you, I'm—

"John?" It was a whisper, as soft and low as the moaning wasn't.

"Y-yes Sherlock?"

"Please stop thinking, your confusing me."

John drew in a ragged breath, nodded and tried to sit up. "Yes, well…let me—"

Sherlock finally made use of one of his hands. He pressed it to John's bare chest, instantly and unconsciously petting at the point of contact. "No. No. Oh god no, John. You aren't getting up. You're not going to put me on my back and suck me off (despite himself Sherlock remembers almost every single sexual term he heard in that porno) just to slow things down.

"So please lay down. If I don't get your—" Sherlock paused. He had said the word cock exactly never, penis sounded like an experiment, and dick just wasn't right. Probably he was going to go with cock but right now was not going to be the first time. "—if you don't just lie down so that I can get you back in my mouth I may have a nervous breakdown."

John blinked a couple times, couldn't think of anything to say, and so laid back down, imprisoning Sherlock's warm hand against his chest.

John was definitely less erect than he'd been a minute ago and for that he was grateful. He was not the hair-trigger sort, never had been even as a teenager, but he'd also never had sex with someone he loved _and_ wanted this intensely. Loved yes. Wanted yes. But both at the same time, and so strongly? No. As a matter of fact—

"John?" That same soft murmur.

John shook his head to clear it. "I'm done now. I'll stop…I'm—" Sherlock's free hand slid around John's cock. "—grhg."

Sherlock smiled and went down on John again with a sigh and then a guttural, quite grand moan, which continued unabated, fluctuating only in intensity but never volume, until John started keening along with him, bucking crazily into Sherlock's mouth, fingers digging into the other man's hand, legs clamping hard against his sides as John started coming so hard he shouted loud enough to drown out Sherlock.

As each pulse filled his mouth Sherlock absolutely growled, a predator feeding greedily. Long after the final spasm faded he continued to suck as if John was still rock hard, not understanding how sensitive his lover now was, not until John actually yelped and said, "I'm very _sensitive_ right now!"

Sherlock looked up and into John's eyes and honest to god John felt that 220 volts jolt through his cock again because the ravenous look on Sherlock's face, the wet, come-slick lips, the open mouth and hooded eyes with which his lover gazed back at him…he knew right then (and was correct) that he would never in his life see anything more sexual, more beautiful.

He stared and would have continued to stare for a long time, devouring that look on his lover's face but eventually Sherlock remembered to breathe, to lick his lips, to crawl up John's body and to kiss him.

"Thank you," he said, swollen lips pressing softly against John's but not moving, instead waiting…waiting.

John understood almost instantly and shoved his tongue deeply into the other man's mouth and was gifted with a broken, desperate moan as Sherlock sucked. And sucked. And sucked.

Finally John needed air and he needed to swallow, so he shifted slowly, taking Sherlock's long lean frame with him, until they were on their side on the bed, mouths now inches apart.

"You," the doctor whispered, "are a magnificently oral man."

Sherlock leaned in, ready to kiss again, but John fished down between them, tugged Sherlock's left hands upward, slid his lover's long middle finger between parted lips and started, well, fucking his own mouth with it.

With soft, repeated grunts of pleasure Sherlock watched that mouth, watched lips wrap around the finger, watched them part so a tongue could come out, watched that tongue tongue between his fingers, then slick over knuckle and nail, and Sherlock could have probably watched this show, enraptured, for a very long time (and would, about six days later, when they'd done each other twice in four different spots in the flat) but John stopped and looked down between them.

That's when Sherlock realized he was humping…nothing. Hips thrusting, wanting, needing to press against—John shoved his thigh between Sherlock's black-clad legs—_oh god that._

"Sherlock?"

The younger man opened his eyes, felt his own panting breaths gather hot in the space between their mouths. Sherlock leaned in, nuzzled at John's face with his own, tightened his legs around John's bare leg, humped harder.

"You're coming in my mouth Sherlock—" the words caused one lean set of hips to pump faster "Please. I want to feel you come in my mouth."

It was a close thing. A very close thing, but this started with _please _so it's right that it end with please. Though every nerve in Sherlock's body pleaded for completion, Sherlock spread his legs (he would turn out to be deliciously good at that, John would learn), tried to see past his whited-out vision, and said "Now John, now.

"Please, please, _please."_

_

* * *

I thought this would be the last chapter but these guys are taking their time. So. Once more into the breach. *DelicateCough* So to speak._


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock Holmes was a natural beggar.

Which made perfect sense if you think about it because Sherlock will generally do almost anything to get what he wants, and what he wanted now was to feel John's hands pushing between his legs, feel John's mouth sliding over his cock, and to feel (for the first time in a ridiculously long time) his body rocked hard with orgasm.

And so Sherlock begged.

"Please," he said, voice harsh and breaking, legs trying to wrap around John's leg again. "Now."

Cradled together, side-by-side on the bed, John let Sherlock drag his leg close once more…but not close enough. Instead he brushed his mouth over Sherlock's mouth, licked at it, soft and wet, and whispered hot against his lips, "No."

John Watson used to think that wanting to dominate something was a sign of weakness, that needing control meant you had none yourself. Well he doesn't think that now.

Because John's been living with a force of nature going on three months now and he's learned that if you don't contain the energy, capture the fire—well you're just wasting a very valuable resource.

And so with a few gestures, and one word, the good doctor was attempting to put a harness on the greatest resource over which he had even a bit of control: Sherlock's brain.

"Tell me," he said so softly that the other man had to slide close and even then he didn't hear.

Pressing the fingertips of one hand against John's mouth as if to Braille out the words Sherlock moaned in frustration, "John…"

When the doctor said nothing, the detective danced the fingers of both hands over the doctor's face, looking for a combination, a key, a password. "Please…"

Close. But not…quite.

John turned his head just a little when Sherlock's long, spidery fingers skittered by again, captured three between his lips, then tenderly between teeth. He closed his eyes just barely, moaned, almost smiled when he heard a whimper in its wake. "Tell me," he breathed around those pale, warm, suddenly still fingers.

Again the words were faint and again Sherlock came in close, "John," he said as softly as a mouse, a long, lean mouse whose heart is thrumming in his chest so fast he can hardly breathe, "Oh god, John."

More, the good doctor needed more than that.

He let long fingers go and right away they burrowed between John's arms and his body, pulled him closer, until they were chest to chest and John's leg, that bare, beautiful leg was almost close enough. Almost. Sherlock's toes poked and dug and tried to insinuate his long limbs around it, and though John might be shorter than his lover he was just as strong and resisted with ease.

_"John,"_ the detective growled in exasperation, about ready to fly apart from the want, from the need to _press,_ to _hump,_ to god damn _come._

And still, even still, John made him wait. Then gave him one more chance. "Tell me," he said, and though he spoke no louder than he had the two times before, Sherlock was so near now, licking at John's jaw as if he were starving and John was something sweet, and so finally he heard the words, clear as day.

_Tell me._

Sherlock stilled all over, a tornado at last contained, controlled, focused. At John's ear he spoke, and his words, though they might not power a city, they could easily beat a doctor's heart for the next, oh, one hundred years.

"You put air in my lungs, John," the breath was warm, the lips soft. "You make _breathing_ worth while. When you say my name, my silly, silly name, you give it grace. And you show me a dimension to the world I saw but never…_saw."_ Sherlock went even more still, seemed not to breathe. And then, "Touch my body John, open my eyes one more time."

God damn.

All the doctor had meant to do was make Sherlock use that beautiful brain to spike his own pleasure, to put sex between his ears, not just between his legs. But this? This was more than he'd had any right to expect. And wouldn't it figure that Sherlock would be a genius here, too? That with that mouth he might exasperate you one day and exult the next? For Sherlock bloody Holmes there just never seemed to be a damned middle ground.

Thank god.

John's gaze raked over the other man's body. He saw a fast pulse at the throat, a sheen of sweat over skin, streaks of scarlet at cheeks, neck, and chest. And a very sweet bulge still waiting between trousered legs.

The doctor growled low in the back of his throat like an animal, a bare naked animal who's suddenly grinning and almost laughing and saying, "I am going to _eat you._ I'm going to eat you alive."

Sherlock started to say something back but John pulled away, first that barely captured leg, then warm arms, then his body. Finally all that was left were his lips still pressed softly against the detective's ear.

"Take off your trousers and pants," John breathed, his voice tense, a little hoarse.

The doctor watched Sherlock's face, saw the younger man's eyes flutter closed while the pulse in his throat sped up. Then he watched long-fingered hands reaching for buttons and zips, saw Sherlock's hips rise from the bed so he could wriggle out of a pair of simple black trousers.

John craned his neck, couldn't help himself, he had to look.

There were little scars on Sherlock's thighs, his long legs were more muscled than expected, there was a patch of dark brown hair between his legs, and his cock, it was very hard and it was dripping.

Suddenly the tornado was surrounded by a hurricane.

John couldn't scrabble to hands and knees fast enough, couldn't slither down Sherlock's body and _get there_ quick enough, and then there he was and there it was and when he ran his fingers down the length of Sherlock's cock it was no contest, John's moan was _much_ louder.

He wanted more than anything to have Sherlock in his mouth, to suck him off until he came _right now_ but then what was the god damn point of the build up, the tease? So, with a sigh of great long-suffering the good doctor instead placed his mouth directly over the head of Sherlock's cock and just _breathed._

Sherlock's moan was loud and so long it took all the breath out of him. The moaning only got louder and even more breathless when John's tongue poked at his belly, right where precome pooled, and started licking slowly, languidly, every other stroke brushing against Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock knew there were words floating around the universe, useful words that could be used for the purposes of pleading, but he knew this in the abstract way you know the earth moves around the sun. For Sherlock could not marshal even one of those words right now. Instead he opened his legs wider, and then to make his invitation as unambiguous as possible, he thrust his hips into John's face.

John's reply was as wordless. He pressed a hand against each of Sherlock's thighs and spread his lover's legs yet more. He bit the inside of Sherlock's right thigh, then slicked his tongue over until it pressed against his perineum. That high pitched sound Sherlock just made? Very pretty, very sweet.

Let's see if we can make more, John thought, sliding his tongue up along Sherlock's sac, then along the entire underside of his cock.

There was a babble of word-like noises, guttural groans, then that thing again with the hips, rising, falling, desperate to press up or _into_ something and for the first time in his life John thought, "Me, I want him to do that inside me."

For a moment the doctor was ready to slide up Sherlock's body and assume the position…and then just as quickly not. Heck, why go whole hog their first time, he thought? Why not save the anal sex for later, when blow jobs are blasé? But the truth? The doctor was nervous. And if he was being completely honest he—

"J—John?"

_Oh crap._ He'd done it again.

Enough already then. It was time.

John rose to hands and knees, crawled up along Sherlock's body, kissed him hard on that cupid's bow mouth, then wrapped a fist around the gray scarf Sherlock wore, and _pulled._

Following the tug the detective sat up, leaned back on his hands, then watched as John went down between his legs again. Seeing his cock slide into John's mouth was, without a doubt definitely the most sexual thing Sherlock had ever seen.

John blinked a slow gaze up at him, eyes hooded, pupils wide and washing out the deep blue iris and _that,_ that was the most sexual thing Sherlock had ever seen. No…it was John's hips thrusting at the bed as he sucked…oh no no no, it was John's hand snaking down between his own legs…it was—

John slid a finger inside Sherlock, who fell instantly and gracelessly across the bed like a murder victim. A talkative one. "Oh, oh, oh god." John crooked his finger gently, explored carefully, until Sherlock's back arched. "Aggggghhhh!"

(For the next three weeks John would replay that sound in his head and be almost unbearably smug for whole minutes at a time.)

About then John stopped fooling around with his own burgeoning erection as Sherlock's was far more interesting. Wrapping his now free hand around the detective's cock he pumped up, while almost withdrawing his finger, then pumped down, while sliding it back in and finding _that_ spot.

His reward from Sherlock for this was lavish, loud, and active. The detective repeatedly shouted that garbled non-word word again, pumping his hips in perfect time with the penetration and withdrawal of John's finger.

John let this continue for ten seconds, thirty, sixty, astonished that Sherlock was still hard, still not coming then, when felt Sherlock's cock get harder, engorging with blood, he promptly blew the detective's mind: He stopped blowing him.

Sherlock actually shrieked, back coming completely off the bed in a tense bow, hands flying up and into John's hair, fisting, tugging, and John let his head be pushed down between two rock-hard, shaking thighs, let Sherlock thrust so hard into his mouth he couldn't breathe, then with a squeeze of his cock and a deep thrust and scrape at his prostate, Sherlock Holmes finally, at last, and completely came in the doctor's mouth.

_

* * *

One more chapter, wherein we hear once again from the skull._


	8. Chapter 8

Wall sex.

Chair sex.

Sex on the couch. And in the hall.

Kitchen table sex.

Sex on the floor (not the kitchen).

Public sex. Maybe in an alley. (He knew a good one.)

Sex in a corset. And heels. On both of them. (Yes, he's seen Rocky Horror, both the play and the film. Sherlock is not completely without culture.)

Sex with John wearing Sherlock's great coat, and nothing else.

Sex with Sherlock wearing John's biggest jumper, and nothing else.

Morgue sex.

Sex on the stairs leading to John's bedroom.

Shower sex.

Sherlock opened his eyes in the dark and blinked rapidly. On his back, in bed, beside John at (he turned) 3:42 a.m. the detective realized he had just thought up one dozen things he wanted desperately to do with John and it had taken him less than nine seconds to do it.

This made him nervous.

Because what if John didn't want to? What if this was it? What if John woke up, you know, _straight?_

Sherlock shifted, stared at…at…(his mind could not insert 'lover')…at John and willed him to wake up and to _want_ him. Don't let this be it, don't let this be all, please just don't.

Who Sherlock was praying to (for lack of a better word) he couldn't have told you. And once he realized that that was what he was doing he frowned, stopped immediately, then slid carefully from the bed. He checked that John's breathing didn't so much as hitch…then spent the next five minutes just sort of leaning close enough that he could feel the heat and push of that breath.

And then Sherlock padded quietly from the room.

* * *

"I'm still me, you know."

_I had heard._

"What if he doesn't like me as me?" Sherlock whispered in the dark, "What if he wakes up and thinks, 'Well _that_ was a mistake.'" The detective's fingers brushing softly over the skull's parietal bone.

_Sherlock, for the last three months or so he's had _nothing _but you as you. I think he has a small idea of what he's in for._

"He may actually be straight."

The skull sighed melodramatically, and had learned from the best—boy genius here—how to do it just so.

_Shall we recap the evening?_

"I don't think that's—"

_Let's begin: John initiated the first kiss, correct?_

A quick intake of breath: "Yes."

_And then there was the whole Grand Declaration thing, right? Something about "until the end of time I'm going to make love to you," or similar words to that tasty effect?_

"Yes."

_Then there was, I believe, _crawling?

"Uh, there was."

_That turned into more kisses, then, let's see what happened next…hmmm…oh, I remember: you went down on John until he had a really spectacular orgasm in your mouth_, _yes?_

"…"

_Sorry, didn't hear you._

"Yes." Absolutely as low as it is possible to speak without slipping into the sub-sonic range.

A_nd after that he sucked on your fingers, kind of, mmmmm, fucking his own mouth with them—so far so good?_

Sherlock tried to say something word-like, but just grunted.

_Right then. Moving on, and excuse me if I hurry through, but after he does that thing with your fingers, he says, and I quote your quote, "I want to feel you come in my mouth."_

The skull paused but boy genius had nothing to add.

_So then John initiates a whole bunch of sexy times stuff all over your skinny little body—and so help me god if he doesn't make you eat more I'm having a serious talk with that man—and then he takes the time to turn you on so hard your brain shuts down—_

The skull paused again, waiting for Sherlock to jump in and claim that his magnificent brain _never_ shuts down, but Sherlock? Standing there at the mantle in the dark at 4:03 a.m., well he did not make one peep. And that's when the skull knew Things. Had. Changed. For. Reals.

—_and even though he could have hurried things along (after all, he'd already got his), John, our delightful little soldier, he continues playing you like a violin until you're kind of incapable of speech, correct?_

Sherlock nodded in the dark.

_Excuse me, what did you say?_

Sherlock nodded more vigorously this time.

The skull muttered and continued._ So then, and let's not put too fine a point on it, he engulfs your prick with his mouth, slides his fingers inside your arse, and proceeds to take you on a merry old ride until you squinch your pretty eyes shut, arch your back, and come for a year. Did that summarize things more or less?_

Sherlock's answer was a ragged sigh that was a little bit like a moan.

_Yes. Well. Sherlock, let me be perfectly honest with you, can I do that? I think the chances that John is going to 'wake up straight' are as good as Mrs. Hudson's not collecting on the bet she made with her Card Night gals about you an—oh, um, never mind, I've said too much._

Which was fine because Sherlock wasn't listening any more anyway, he was already drifting off through the sitting room and toward his bedroom and his bed. In which John, sweet _gay_ John—was still sleeping.

* * *

He was crazy.

John was sure that was the only answer. Blinking in the street-light illumed dark at—he glanced at the clock behind Sherlock's head—at 4:42 a.m. he was certain he must have dreamt the whole thing.

And yet right in front of him was a man. _The_ man. The only man.

"Hello, Sherlock."

There was no reply because John had barely breathed the words, and because the softly breathing man was fast asleep.

John enjoyed that rare sweet sight for a little while, and then felt his heart thrum a fast panic. What was going to happen when Sherlock_ woke up?_

Unbidden John could imagine a half dozen scenarios, all of them ending with his moving out. The part between now and then would include recriminations, curt words—or worse, no words at all, just a cold distance. Just regret. Sherlock's regret.

John felt the pain rise in his chest like something alive, physical, willful. It sat him up, it moved him, it took him from the room.

* * *

"I don't…he won't…what am I…do I have to move out?"

_Oh John._

"He's…that was a different man in there. That was…who was that?"

_Welcome to my world John. Welcome to the man that, until last night, only I knew existed._

"He's real? That gentle, giving, _unbelievably sexual_ creature is Sherlock?"

_You spoke in italics!_

"Why does he do it? Why does he hide that part of himself, that…humanity?"

_Why do you think?_

John took a deep breath, held it until he felt dizzy, released it slowly. "Because he's been hurt more times than he can count and walling off his heart is the only way to survive the hurt."

_Got it in one, sweetheart._

"But what if he walls off his heart against me? What if he wakes up and thinks, 'Well, that was a mistake.'"

_Here we go again._

"Pardon?"

_John, my dear little John—_

"Please, we've talked about this 'little' thing."

_Do you really need me to recap the evening for you?_

"What if I hurt him? What if I—what if I made him do something he didn't want to do?"

_Because I can go into great detail._

"I was pretty overwhelmed with, you know…" Words, very low, soft and right at the skull's, well, ear, "…desire. I may have done something. I may have hurt him."

The skull mused on John's breath. It was nice. It was warm.

"I could have screwed up in a thou—"

_He begged you to come to bed with him, didn't he? I believe his words were "Please, please, please."_

John's reply was a pretty, almost incandescent blush.

_Yes, right. But we're jumping ahead of ourselves, aren't we? Because _before that_ you do know SH spent two hour figuring out what song you were listening to in the kitchen when he came home from Glasgow._

"You mean Rock and Roll Part 2?"

_That one. Anyway, two hours. Eventually he called the radio station, figured out the song, bought that baby online, cranked it to 11—all just to get your attention._

"How do you know this?"

_Stop interrupting. As I was saying, he wanted your attention like a mad thing, didn't he? Here I am John, look here! And you did and he did and that song led to hugging and touching and kissing…lots of kissing, right?_

John closed his eyes, smiling.

_Right. Then after awhile there was undressing and more kissing, so much with the kissing, and then there was some rubbing and humping—_

John's blush worked its way down his neck and up into his hairline.

—_and then, mmmmm, how can I put this delicately John? Then our Sherlock spread your sweet legs and ate you like a Christmas ham._

The doctor's eyes flew open and for the first time he wondered if, so help him, the skull really was talking. Because there was no way in hell he would have used those precise words. "Um…"

_But I skipped the best part. When you tried to get him to stop, he actually held you down and said something about a nervous breakdown if denied the wonders of your Thomas, John. Am I right?_

"I, um, I don't think I said it like—"

_And after you came like a geyser in his mouth—and I could hear you sound off all the way down here sweetie—after that Sherlock said thank you. Did that not boggle your mind? It boggles mine and I don't even have one anymore._

"Yeah, about that, I—"

_So do I really need to continue? To discuss his actual, you know pleading afterward? His obedience to your charming bossiness in bed? His spectacular orgasm? Because I can. I will. I have._

"What?"

_Never mind. The point, and I do have one, is where in that sweaty, delightful story do you sense regret? Any at all? Even a little?_

John took a deep breath, sighed it out over the skull's face. He murmured something that was at first hard to hear and then it was as clear as the melody to a song. "This is, in fact, a beginning rather than an end. Yes. _Yes."_

Finally, the good doctor patted the skull's cheek gently, then turned and headed toward Sherlock's bedroom and his bed. In which Sherlock, sweet Sherlock was still sleeping.

* * *

When morning finally dawned, nothing much happened. But that's just because both John and Sherlock—a tad overtired from a wee bit of a stressful night—slept in until well past noon.

When they woke—was it John's bad arm twitching, or was it a small but very audible snore from Sherlock?—they each reflexively turned toward the other, hands reaching, sliding around, pulling close.

No one said anything for a long time. No one had to. And then their mouths were too busy doing other things.

And finally, at last, _that,_ that is how John Watson and Sherlock Holmes first got romantically involved, if you must know.

Now excuse us while we go sit in the corner and have a nervous breakdown. Thank you.

_The End_

_

* * *

And thus concludes a story that went on much longer than I expected, one that was such great fun to write, and one that included the debut of the skull into my very grateful fiction. Thank you for your comments, they have been so lovely!_


	9. Chapter 9

**Epilogue**

_And finally, at last, that, _that_ is how John Watson and Sherlock Holmes first got romantically involved, if you must know. _

_Now excuse us while we go sit in the corner and have a nervous breakdown. Thank you._

..

Look at that. Did you see what I did there? Did you? I told you a nice long story about two silly kids and then I didn't bother to tell you I was telling you the story.

But you knew, didn't you? I know you knew. Sure, I said "we" all the time, as if—what? Did I think I was going to throw you off? And if I did, _why did I want to?_ And if I managed to throw you off, how did that make you fee—

_Damn it! _I'll stop. I'm stopping. There. I've stopped.

Occupational hazard, all those self-referencing questions, all that circular logic. I used to be a therapist, did I mention that?

Anyway, okay. Fine. Let's start again. Yes. I'll be brief.

I am dead. I am a skull. I live at 221B Baker Street. And I just told you a story about how my problem child and his hero finally got together. It's a lovely story in parts, isn't it? A touch of angst to keep things real. Some humpy-bumpy to keep you interested. I love sharing the story, but this? This was just the beginning. Now I've got _now_ to deal with, and I've got so much more that I want to tell.

Will you listen?

Good.

What I need you to do then, is to put this story down, tuck it in, say goodnight to it, and move along with me now to _my_ tale: _Skullduggery._ And then I need your opinion on a few things.

Well, on everything, really.


End file.
